


Jingles

by flashindie



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:42:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashindie/pseuds/flashindie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon writes ad jingles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jingles

“So,” Brendon says, “so what sort of synonyms are there for the word ‘crunchy’? I mean, off the top of my head there’s like, there’s crispy, crackly. You could probably say crusty as well, but I’m not sure how many people would buy a cereal when the ad said it was crusty.”

Ryan shrugs tired shoulders and leans back in his chair, Starbucks coffee mug tight in his fingers. They’re, and Ryan, he’s not sure how to put it, they’re on a date…ish…thing, something that leaves knots in Ryan‘s shoulders and tightens his stomach in something that isn’t quite affection, but isn‘t quite loathing either. 

The point is, they met sometime three months ago, colliding (literally) outside a K-Mart and Ryan was left with orange smoothie all down the front of his t-shirt and a Brendon who didn’t so much apologise as much as he stared wide eyed and stupid-faced. Ryan’s not a particularly mean person, but Brendon was too many fingers and too many words that ran together like migrating salmon. He couldn’t stop the fuck you and Brendon couldn’t stop the excuses.

Point is, Ryan hasn’t been able to get rid of the guy since. 

“What even rhymes with crunchy? They don‘t, you know what, they don‘t make my job easy. Fucking cereal,” but he’s laughing anyway, all big grins and stupid eyes and Ryan rolls his.

“Munchy?” and the word falls off his tongue before he can tighten the restraints, and fuck, Brendon’s big eyes light up and Ryan should know better than to encourage him, this.

“Dude, you are like, fucking pro or something,” Brendon nods wildly, all bouncing hair and white teeth. “Seriously. You thought about this as a career option?”

“Dude,” and it’s mocking, slides bitter from his lips and burns his tastebuds. “I hadn‘t, but since meeting you I may have seen the light in writing advertising jingles for teeth-rotting cereal.”

Brendon scowls, leans back in his seat and picks at the muffin in his fingers (choc-chip and blueberry and the colours bleed together, looks like shit). “Ray says sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

“Which one’s Ray again? The one who writes ad‘s for the latest Fisher Price toy? The latest homemaker Barbie?” Ryan asks, and he rolls his eyes again, juts out his lower lip - not enough to be deliberate. “I’m in fucking law school, Brendon, pretty sure that means I have a career plan that’s, y’know, worthwhile.”

“For such an,” and Brendon makes the word slide out long and slurring, “ammaazzing career plan, you sure bitch about it a lot.”

“I don’t bitch,” Ryan says, and he takes a sip of coffee, lets it burn his throat on the way down. “I look at both sides of the story by rationally complaining.”

“No,” Brendon taps his fingers on the table, eyes the waitress, before glancing back over at Ryan. “You’re too fucking isolated and bitchy and close-minded to look at both sides of anything.”

“Look,” and Ryan puts his coffee down, weaves his fingers and stares at Brendon with half-lidded eyes. “You’re the one stuck in some dead-end job and sure, you could be currently content with it, but in ten years time, I’m gonna be the one able to support a family and buy a fucking awesome car.”

“You’d rather be rich than happy?”

“Why do you sound so morally outraged?” and Ryan quirks a brow, grins. “You ask that question to like, ninety percent of America, and they would answer the same way.”

“Bono wouldn’t.”

“Bono can’t talk. He’s a fucking millionaire.”

Brendon leans back in his chair and he won’t meet Ryan’s eyes, just stares down at the woodwork and raps his knuckles against the surface. He sighs, glances up and heaves out another breath that crashes against the stale air. “I want to be happy,” Brendon says, “and that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“You know where I see us in ten years, Ryan Ross?” Brendon leans in close, breathes over Ryan’s ear. “I see me, with a family, with friends and colleagues and a career that doesn’t kill me to go to every morning and I see you.” Brendon pauses, purses his lips. “I see you six feet under with scars on your wrists or rope burns around your neck or a skeleton full of pills.”

He shoves the chair back and makes to leave, grabs his coat off the back of his chair and his messenger bag off the ground. “You can pay, after all, I probably can’t afford it.”

Brendon doesn’t say _fuck you_ , not once, but Ryan’s not an idiot, he heard it.


End file.
